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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28448550">Romanian Holiday</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomiliy/pseuds/Nomiliy'>Nomiliy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cirque du Freak | The Saga of Darren Shan - Darren Shan, Cirque du Freak: The Vampire's Assistant (2009), Darren Shan - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>But he's trying, Darius-centric POV, Established Steve "Leopard" Leonard/Darren Shan, Family Angst, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, It's a poor attempt, M/M, Screen Reader Friendly, Steve's trying</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:14:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,497</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28448550</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomiliy/pseuds/Nomiliy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Oi, no sulking you moody brat. We got a landline, town’s a two-hour ride South, and your uncle’s already made nice with the locals,” decreed the mighty Lord while Darius, his lowly firstborn son, had sat in the back of their rental van four days prior. “So, deal with it. Chag Sameach, son.”</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <em>Oh, blow it out your arse, dad!</em></p>
<p><em>Darius only got a few weeks off for the winter holiday, and he was forced to spend damn near half of it with his blood-sucking (literally) leech of a father and his Uncle Darren who was way too excited for this joke of a ‘bonding experience.’ </em><br/> </p>
<p>Set in an AU where Steve and Darren marry to reunite the clans. They decide to have a semi-normal holiday with Darius to make up for the lost time. But nothing's really normal, is it?<br/>Not with the sordid history Steve led, and definitely not when he blatantly ignores his past.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Steve "Leopard" Leonard/Darren Shan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Cirque du Christmas</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Hasenpfeffer on the Roof</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>WARNING: Mentions of violence in the past, and depictions of hunting animals. </p>
<p>Happy belated holidays~!<br/>I was heavily inspired by RoxyPony's Christmas series <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28181607/chapters/69056070">We Can Have A Little Christmas</a>, and I just had to do something with Steve, Darren, and Darius. I also needed a small break from Idiot Savant to work on other projects and get something down for my next big series. </p>
<p>This series is meant to be a little indulgent on my part, but I still tried to keep Steve, Darren, and Darius's character fairly true. The story is set after the events of another fic I have in the works, so consider this a little taste of what's to come~</p>
<p>This series also attempts to explore Darius's relationship with his father's new life. In my AU, book 8 is the lynchpin or catalyst for change within Steve. Darius hasn't come to terms with that, and his father's insistence on leading a normal life doesn't really help.</p>
<p>I also tried out a new format! Tell me if it helped with your reading experience, made it worse, or if you even noticed ;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<h1>Hasenpfeffer on the Roof</h1>
<hr/>
<p>           The burning stone of the chimney nearly melted Darius Shan’s parka to his spine. But the wind roaring down the mountainside rawed his cheeks and nose in ice-laced bursts. Shifting around the chimney would have been a smart idea; the wind nearly knocked him off the roof a few times already, and he doubted the two feet of snow below would actually break his inevitable fall. Plus the stone pillar churning out black smoke was a hair taller than Darius, and about as wide as the 15-year-old if he tucked up his arms and knees—just wide enough to block the wind. </p>
<p>           “Bloody stupid reception,” his teeth chattered out.</p>
<p>           And just wide enough to block his signal. </p>
<p>           He'd been trying for the better part of an hour to text his best friend Oggy Bas, or check Snapchat, TikTok, Twitter—anything that wasn’t watching old Christmas movies on VHS with his dad and uncle. But the Romanian countryside didn’t have room for cell towers, apparently. There were Norwegian spruce and Silver Fir trees for miles, ornery locals obsessed with ‘taierea porcului,’ and the bleak, soul-crushing cold. So, obviously, no place for WIFI, Sainsbury’s, or a damn Starbucks. </p>
<p>           But such trivial things weren’t worth the precious attention of Lord Stephen Leonard, the righteous and holy ruler of the Vampaneze.</p>
<p>           "Oi, no sulking you moody brat. We got a landline, town’s a two-hour ride South, and your uncle’s already made nice with the locals,” decreed the mighty Lord while Darius, his lowly firstborn son, had sat in the back of their rental van four days prior. “So, deal with it. Chag Sameach, son.” </p>
<p>           <em>Oh, blow it out your arse, dad!</em></p>
<p>           Darius only got a few weeks off for the winter holiday, and he was forced to spend damn near half of it with his blood-sucking (literally) leech of a father and his Uncle Darren who was way too excited for this joke of a ‘bonding experience.’ </p>
<p>           Whatever they did to convince his mum, uncle’s sister, that it was a totally good idea to let the deadbeat dad that walked out on them drive him 10 countries over to some murder cabin in the middle of the woods for the holidays with his uncle <em>who was supposed to be dead </em>had to be nothing short of divine intervention, drugs, and vampiric hypnotism. </p>
<p>           Or his mum just hated him. With his back sizzling off his skin, the frostbite reddening his cheeks, and the words ‘no service’ taunting him, Darius Shan figured that had to be partially true.</p>
<p>           Oggy got to spend the holiday in Limerick, the Jones’ were in Wales, and his wonderful mum and grandparents were hitting up every Christmas market in London while Darius froze his arse off on the roof. That had to be a Shan thing—the obsession with Christmas markets. Uncle Darren had talked non-stop about the ones in Bucharest and Brașov the whole drive up four days ago. He even tried to rope Darius into tagging along yesterday, but God he could only take so much of his uncle at a time. Dad could tune him out, but Darius hadn’t learned that nifty survival trick yet…</p>
<p>           After trying and failing to will service into his phone, Darius gave up. He just stared at the empty bars in the corner of the screen. Oggy’s awkward smile and his own stupid smirk from an impromptu selfie stared back. He was looking into a different time, one where he still kept their winter holiday traditions; snowball fights with tire-tracked slush in the street, sneaked cigs at Tomlin Park smoked under the jungle gym, walking through the McDonald’s drive-thru in the blistering cold for something hot and greasy. </p>
<p>           Instead, Darius was simultaneously sweating and freezing to death on top of a roof in the middle of Nowhere, Romania. He was surrounded by trees, rocky mountain faces, more trees, and the smattering of holiday lights that blinked red and green along the rooftop.</p>
<p>           Uncle Darren, apparently way overdue to scratch that Christmas itch, had begun decorating the second Darius arrived. He strung up lights all along the wood cabin with the glee of a toddler wielding a new tool, made his own garland and reefs to wrap around the patio banisters and door jambs, and hung an absurd amount of mistletoe that made Darius’s trek inside and out of the house deadly. He even strung up some tinsel in the trees for good measure. You never would’ve guessed that a Vampire Prince and the Vampaneze Lord were shacked up in that quaint, Country Living-esque holiday cabin.</p>
<p>           And that was yet another reason why he didn’t want to venture inside. Uncle was nice and all, but he tried way too hard. He pestered Darius to decorate with him, go shopping at the Christmas markets, and chop up wood for the fire to the tune of off-key caroling. He was just way too nice, and way too keen on holidays in general. Darius chalked it up to whatever the hell they did to him at Vampire Mountain. He’d been a prince since he was 18, that had to do <em>something </em>to his brain.</p>
<p>           Ash and smoke stung at his sea-green eyes, carrying off the smell of roasting rabbit through an endless forest. It was a rich, oil-laden smell of cooking meat that slicked his skin and stuck in his yellow hair.</p>
<p>           Uncle Darren liked cooking over an open fire. He said it was the only way he knew how to cook, apparently something he picked up from General Crepsley during his apprenticeship before becoming a prince. Never thought of ‘domestic skills’ as part of shadowing a creature of the night, yet uncle could gut a vampire twice his size, negotiate vampire-vampaneze integration plans in four languages, and cook up a nice rabbit stew.</p>
<p>           Honestly, uncle’s cooking was the one not shitty thing about being stuck up here. Sure, he was desperately nice at times, but he made a good meal. Darius could smell the wild potato and onion frying up with the young rabbit. If he listened hard enough, he could even hear the sizzle of the cast iron through the chimney. He bet that was one of the rabbits his dad dragged him out of the cabin to hunt.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>            <em>“Keep the crossbow up, son.” Dad was always short with him on hunts, no matter the game. They trekked through the morning snow following a pair of tracks a mile away from the cabin. </em></p>
<p>           <em>“Do we both need to be out here?” Darius called out, keeping his bow perpendicular with his shoulder, while his father went further ahead.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>            He was shushed harshly. ‘You’ll scare them off,’ mouthed his dad, pointing his head to the North where a small den poked out through the snow. </em>
</p>
<p>           <em>Darius was never asked if he wanted to go hunting</em>—<em>it was just assumed that he would.</em></p>
<p>           <em>He came down that morning to a typical, though harrowing sight: Dad had made breakfast and morning tea. Uncle Darren and his father had yet to turn, so they were still half-human and therefore got up with the sun. Dad would make breakfast</em>—<em>nothing special, but nothing terrible</em>—<em>and uncle would tend to the hearth. This had been the morning ritual from Sunday to this Tuesday morning, and what Darius had adapted to as a 15-year-old who rarely woke up before noon. </em></p>
<p>           <em>Laid out on the table was a full plate of eggs, toast, roasted tomatoes, and sausage when he came down the stairs. Despite the routine, he still didn't know what to make of this scarily idyllic cottage life. </em></p>
<p>           <em>He’d seen the extremes of his father; there was ‘Mr. Leonard,’ the traveling architect who fixed broken decks and fences around the neighborhood out of the goodness of his little black heart. Then there was ‘His Majesty Lord Leonard,’ the half-vampaneze that slit his principal's neck then drank him dry in the middle of a parking lot. </em></p>
<p>           <em>Which one was the man at the breakfast nook spreading marmalade on toast in the morning? Pulling his uncle, the vampire he swore to torture and kill, into a kiss over the kettle? </em></p>
<p>           <em>For a gullible second, he hoped against all odds it wasn’t the man that ripped out Brain O'Shaughnessy’s throat. </em></p>
<p>           <em>Then Darius saw that hand-crossbow sitting on the table. He lost his appetite.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>           <em>He stared at the glinting arrows strapped to the Vampaneze Lord’s back not an hour later. They were needle-thin and tagged with red feathers at the end. The wind rushed over his father, crawling through his platinum-blond hair and over his shoulders. They whistled against the freezing steel, a sound so like the pitch emitted when fired.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>            Darius’s knees locked up. He lagged behind his father, who approached with his finger on the trigger. </em>
</p>
<p>           <em>“Grab that one,” said his father walking past the den. “I’ll see if any goose or duck stuck around for the colder seasons.” </em></p>
<p>           <em>“Grab…?” Darius looked between the den and his father slowly receding into the forest.</em></p>
<p>           <em>Steve’s shoulders slumped inward a bit, and his head did a small back-take of disbelief. “Kill it, son.” </em></p>
<p>           <em>And, with that, he was gone. </em></p>
<p>           <em>Darius stared at the den, watching the tracks as if they’d lead him anywhere else. He wasn’t a bad shot, and quite skilled in fact by his father’s and Gannen’s accounts. But the crossbow felt strange in his hands; it was a relic from a different time, one where his father was never around, and a far too young Darius was trained to shoot men straight through their hearts. </em></p>
<p>           <em>They didn’t talk much about that transition period</em>—<em>or the lack thereof. </em></p>
<p>           <em>One day, his father was filling his head with how evil vampires were; how they drained people dry and left them to rot; how the worst, most vile of them all were Larten Crepsley and Darren Shan. </em></p>
<p>           <em>But that changed when he was ten. Suddenly, dad was saying that he was mistaken before, that he had misunderstood some things, and that the vampire prince wasn’t so evil after all. </em></p>
<p>           <em>Darius, young and ill-equipped for change, didn’t understand. </em></p>
<p>           <em>Then he saw his principal's head crack across the pavement of the school parking lot. His father stared down at the twitching body, looming over him with the flickering street lights distorting his shadow. He let Principal O’Shaughnessy crawl just a few feet away, whimpering and begging the whole time. Then he pinned him to the ground with a grinding boot. He tried for another few seconds to escape.</em></p>
<p>           <em>Dad giggled in his throat. In a blink, he ripped out his jugular and bled him dry.</em></p>
<p>           <em>Darius realized Uncle Darren was never the evil one. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>           <em>The rabbit crawled out of its hole. Out of instinct, he fired a single arrow clear through its skull.</em></p>
<p>           <em>The thin bone made an audible ‘thud’ as the brain matter was impaled. For a few infinite seconds, the rabbit spasmed in the snow. It twitched, coiled in on itself, then stretched itself back out. The rabbit repeated that process dozens of times in the seconds it took to finally die. From a distance, the pattern looked like small snow angels. </em></p>
<p>           <em>He nearly gagged at the thought.</em></p>
<p>           <em>A crack of snow made Darius level the crossbow at six o’clock. He launched an arrow straight past his dad’s ear, embedding it into the thick trunk of a fir tree that was just past. </em></p>
<p>           <em>Steve shook off the snow that had cascaded down in a ‘puff.’ He carried two fat ducks by their necks with him. “Well,” he patted down his shoulders with his free hand, “pretty great aim there, son. You’re still drifting to the left, but Hell, that worked out for me.” He walked past his son and collected his kill. “Damn,” he grinned back in swelling pride, “really clean shot there.” </em></p>
<p>           <em>It was strung up by the back legs, knocking into the ducks as his father walked back to the cabin. Drops of red dotted the ground below. </em></p>
<p>           <em>“Dare’s gonna have a field day with this stuff.” His father held up the game, a gesture that should’ve been so casual. “Probably whip up some rabbit stew, fry up some latkes, break out the glühwein</em>—<em>” </em></p>
<p>           <em>Steve rambled on about dinner most of the way back, never noticing how Darius lagged behind or the rattling tremble to his fingers. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>            Darius had come up to the roof after the hunt. He left that crossbow at the front door, dad with the bloody game, uncle arranging garland all around the fireplace, and their fucked-up definition of ‘normal’ as far away from him as possible. But now, huddled by the chimney to keep warm and his belly empty, dinner sounded so damn enticing. </p>
<p>            The smell was only thickening in his nose. Darius’s stomach ached for that warm, full feeling. It was chipping away his resolve to avoid his dad and uncle as much as possible this holiday. But he’d wait it out. He’d refresh his phone for the next hour, stare off into the endless white that stretched past the mountainside, count stars, <em>anything </em>to pass the time till his dad and uncle were in bed and he could shimmy down the gutter well after dinner was over to scavenge leftovers. </p>
<p>            But he could already taste the thick gravy on the back of his tongue. The scent of dried herbs was swelling in his senses like the very smoke pumping out of the chimney was calling him down. Christ, it smelled like the rabbit stew was right under his nose—</p>
<p>            “Chow time, inmate,” came the self-satisfied voice of his dad. </p>
<p>            Darius rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. </p>
<p>            “Oi, attitude young man,” chided his father while he lifted himself up onto the roof. His dad was tall and lean, the only real bulk to him coming from his arms and chest. He typically dressed in all black, and the holidays weren’t much of an exception. The only hint of color to him was the long blue scarf he started wearing at the beginning of Hanukkah. It was striped with the star of David in geometric patterns all along the sides, and though he acted like it was an obligation to wear, he still wore it.</p>
<p>           He hauled himself up with one hand, held a large bowl of soup in the other, and walked sure-footed on the icy shingles to his son. “No dessert if you keep up that angst-riddled, teenage bullshit.” </p>
<p>            He didn’t have time to shoot back before that warm bowl was shoved into his freezing hands. Despite himself, he breathed a sigh of relief into the bowl and slurped down that first mouthful just as fast. Scolding lips and tongue be damned; it was so meaty and rich and strangely comforting that he didn’t care about the smirk his dad sported. </p>
<p>            “Yeah, being antisocial really works up an appetite,” he snickered. “So does freezing to death, apparently.”</p>
<p>            Darius kept his face buried in the bowl. He downed a crispy potato pancake—latke?—in response. </p>
<p>            “It’s warmer at the dinner table, you know.” Dad tapped his heel on the roof, signaling to the hearth roaring below them. “And your uncle is itching to show off this spider ornament he found at the Christmas market.” </p>
<p>            “Pass,” he said between sips. </p>
<p>            “Bet your room is warmer, too.”</p>
<p>            “Chimney’s warm enough,” Darius quipped back. But he saw the self-assured look on his dad’s face. The warmth sliding down his gullet and filling up his belly only made the December wind harsher. And his dad could see that clear as day. </p>
<p>            Steve sighed and walked over to the chimney, leaning on the brick to look over his son. “Come on,” he motioned for him to get up. “Your mum will castrate me if you come back with missing fingers.”</p>
<p>            “I’m fine up here, dad.” </p>
<p>            He gave a terse grunt. His black, thick-soled leather boots kicked at a loose shingle lightly, sending up a puff of fresh and melted snow. “Damn, you’re stubborn.” </p>
<p>            Darius smiled to himself, sure that was the end of the conversation and happily slurped down more soup. </p>
<p>            Then his father sat down beside him, back to the chimney and grinning at the sheer surprise on Darius’s face. </p>
<p>            “Uh, dad...?” He watched his father take out two silver flasks from his inner coat pocket.</p>
<p>            He screwed off the cap and passed one to Darius. “Dessert,” he winked. “Your uncle whipped up some holiday cheer,” he said. “Drink up, it’ll keep you warm.” </p>
<p>           “Dad, I’m not even 16—”</p>
<p>           “I know, you’re overdue, son.” He pressed his mouth to the flask lip and took a stiff one.</p>
<p>            Darius went back and forth between the full flask in one hand and the emptying soup bowl in the other. He’d only ever stole sips of Guinness from his grandpa and snuck mouthfuls from Mrs. Bas’s box wine when she wasn’t looking. </p>
<p>           So, he took a stiff swig like his father.</p>
<p>           He gagged immediately.</p>
<p>           The taste was ungodly, like he’d been poisoned and his insides were churning it back up. His eyes and nose watered from the prickling burn that boiled in his ears and under his hair. “Jesus, dad,” he sputtered in a hoarse tone. “It tastes like gasoline!” </p>
<p>            Steve gave a hardy laugh and took another drink. But even he couldn’t suppress the grimace. “Yeah,” he half coughed. “Darren likes his scotch,” he said. “Never thought red wine and scotch would taste good together, and I was bloody right. Hell, come back inside and you can watch him prance around the kitchen while he sings that song.”</p>
<p>            Just as it was mentioned, Darius heard a terrible falsetto climb up through the chimney. </p>
<p>           “Ale, ale, I drink like a whaaaale~! The prince of ale, ale, aaaaaale!” Uncle Darren dipped down on the last note, sending Darius into an embarrassed sort of chuckles. </p>
<p>           “I can hear him just fine up here, thanks very much.” </p>
<p>            His dad smiled down at the flask. “Yeah, I get it. Lucky for you, though, you only have to deal with us till the end of Hanukkah, right?” His voice took on a kind of sadness despite the casual nature he tried to uphold. </p>
<p>            Darius was thrown off by that. He couldn’t make out what his father was trying to say, nor did he know how to answer. </p>
<p>            “Look,” his dad continued after the beat of silence, only the intermittent and off-key notes of his uncle for interruption. “I know you don’t want to be here, and I know you miss your mum and Oggy and everyone back in London. But don’t hole up out here. You can eat in your room, and me and Darren won’t bother you.” </p>
<p>            Darius quickly shook his head. “I can’t stay in there,” he blurted out. </p>
<p>            Steve quirked a brow at his son. “What?” He asked. “Why haven’t you said anything?” </p>
<p>            He could only shrug his shoulders. Darius wasn’t sure why he said that in the first place. It was true, but he never wanted to actually talk about it. So he took another sip from the flask, avoiding his dad’s eyes in the heat of spiced scotch. </p>
<p>            His gaze was piercing and cut deeper than any gust of wind decimating the mountainside. He stared at Darius for a while, the young teen feeling his father slowly chip away at his defenses just with a sideways glance. But then he stared out into the trees, watching the snow flurries drift far past what even his superhuman vision could perceive. “That why your uncle keeps finding you on the couch in the den?”</p>
<p>            After another beat of silence, Darius nodded. </p>
<p>            Steve sighed into his flask. “Is it too cold?” He probed. “I can feed the hearth and the furnace in your room more often.” </p>
<p>            “No,” Darius looked away to the side, resting his face atop the arm wrapped around his knees. “Heat’s fine.”</p>
<p>            “Is it, uh…” his dad drained the rest of the flask in that pause. He scratched the back of his head and fiddled with the fringe of his scarf when the drink couldn’t save him. “Is it the sounds?” </p>
<p>            “What? Like scary, cabin-in-the-woods sounds?” </p>
<p>            “Well that and, you know,” he took in a breath of frustration, “<em>upsetting </em>sounds.” </p>
<p>            Darius gave his father a strange look, brow raised, and lips pursed as he tried to parse just what his dad was being so cryptic about. </p>
<p>            “So, your room’s on the second floor,” he said, “right above me and your uncle’s room.”</p>
<p>            “Yeah?”</p>
<p>            “And your uncle and I are, well, <em>married.” </em></p>
<p>“Yeah…?” </p>
<p>            “Fucking hell, you’re denser than Darren: Can you hear us shagging?” </p>
<p>            Darius gagged on the soup, latkes, and alcohol creeping out of his stomach. “Fuck, dad!” He practically shrieked. “No! Bloody hell, no!” </p>
<p>            His hands went up on the defensive, but he breathed in a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God!” He chuckled. “Don’t know what the hell I was thinking when we built the cabin, your uncle’s a screamer, and that bed’s rickety as hell—” </p>
<p>            “DAD!” Darius desperately wished the saints and God would strike him deaf. </p>
<p>            “What is it then?” Asked his father. “I think you got a pretty sweet set up in your room aside from the WIFI, but we’re working on that. Thank your uncle for that bill by the way. He got spoiled on our honeymoon, and now he just <em>has</em> to have the damn Sky Sports package with that Peter Graves bloke, and a fucking Geordie bastard he is.” He rolled his eyes just at the mention of the sportscaster. “But I did everything else I could think of for your room. You got my old VHS player and all the classics on tape: <em>Salem’s Lot</em>, <em>The Evil Dead</em>, <em>Fright Night</em>, the works. And those old Sabbath CDs, Sex Pistols, my collection of World War II textbooks and your uncle’s comics, Hell, I even rigged up your crossbow above—” </p>
<p>            “Your crossbow,” Darius cut in. “That’s <em>your </em>crossbow.” </p>
<p>            Steve stopped and looked at his son in surprise. “No,” he said slowly. “I made it for you, remember? You just turned nine, and I wrapped it up in newspaper cause I wanted it to be a surprise?” His face broke out into a huge smile. His dad tried to hide behind the flask, but he saw how the corners of his mouth perked up. </p>
<p>           It was like these were actually good memories for his father. </p>
<p>           “You ripped into it. Fuck, you could barely hold it up right and Gannen threw a fit cause it was loaded with a dummy arrow. God, I was so proud.” </p>
<p>            Darius felt his mouth gap open. “Proud?” He was in disbelief. “You gave me an assault weapon for my birthday, told me to practice, then you left me alone for <em>months</em>, but you’re <em>proud </em>of that<em>?</em>” He clutched at the flask, willing himself to not launch it through his dad’s face. “Dads give their kids baseball bats or footballs for club tryouts. You left me with target paper and a murder weapon to kill vampires, and <em>you’re proud?</em>” </p>
<p>            Steve opened his mouth, probably to yell or scream, but Darius mowed him down.</p>
<p>“You’ve never cared about what I wanted; you’ve always just pushed all your crap on me. The movies, music, hunting, that <em>damn </em>crossbow—that’s all you! Mum said you were different now—she’s convinced that you changed. But news flash! You’re still a selfish arsehole!” </p>
<p>            Darius felt his chest heave. His voice had gone raw from the sheer volume he couldn’t hold back. He didn’t even realize he was shouting. When he heard his own voice echo through the trees, it sent goosebumps up his arms and a sinking hole in his gut.</p>
<p>            His father’s face had gone eerily still. It contorted from surprise to anger and finally bleakness. He said nothing; he didn’t yell, he didn’t have any snarky comment or backhanded reply. He just sat there while the wind picked up and carried his son’s voice to the far reaches of the mountain. There was that calculating look to his eye, one undeterred by bitter wind or dying smoke. But the silence was somehow more terrifying.</p>
<p>           “You gonna say anything?” He demanded.</p>
<p>           When his dad kept looking out into the distance, Darius scoffed and shook his head free of ice.</p>
<p>           “Fine,” he said, “just leave like before then.” He turned away from his father, curling up into his knees on the opposite side of the chimney.</p>
<p>           A smoldering tower of brick between them, and seconds stretching into minutes, Darius finally heard his father get up and shuffle through the snow gathering on the shingles.</p>
<p>           He was alone.  </p>
<p>            With each second that passed, Darius felt himself get colder and colder. The sun was going down, the snow was falling faster, and the heat from the chimney couldn’t keep up with the elements. </p>
<p>            Then he felt something thick drape across his head and shoulders. It was inexplicably warm and smelled like his mum’s house tinged by cigarettes. </p>
<p>            It was his dad’s scarf. </p>
<p>            He stood by Darius’s side, fingers tapping on the flask lid and his neck exposed to the elements. He saw a dark scar running from the jugular down to his collarbone—a winding stream of raised skin radiating from two finger-tip sized divots. All he ever said was that a spider bit him.</p>
<p>           And, somehow, Darius always knew to leave it at that.</p>
<p>            “You done?” He asked casually. </p>
<p>            Darius pulled the thick, long scarf tighter around his shoulders. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Rant over, I guess.” </p>
<p>            Steve shook his head. “I meant with your dinner, son,” he said and tried to smile. </p>
<p>            Darius blinked in surprise, glancing down to his empty bowl now collecting snow. He slowly passed it to his father, who stacked it on top of his own. He felt himself going red—and whether that was from the drink, the cold, or the rising anxiety taking over, he had no bloody idea. </p>
<p>            “I’ll, uh…” his fingers went to tapping the bowl, flask pocketed in the exchange. “Guess I’ll let your uncle know you liked it,” he said softly with an edge of pride. “Want seconds?” </p>
<p>            “N-no,” Darius faltered. </p>
<p>            “Alright,” he said in that voice that was far too soft. “You staying up here, then?”</p>
<p>            Darius gave a simple nod. It didn’t sound right coming from his father. And his face—that utterly defeated expression—was so foreign to Darius. He realized then that he had never seen his father without a smirk. That ‘leopard grin,’ as his uncle called it, defined his face far beyond the physical. Everything about his father laid in that smirk—all the confidence and lies, the simmering rage and active threats, the uncaring and crazed nature—<em>that was his dad</em>. </p>
<p>            He hadn’t realized until now how sad his father always looked. Without the chilling smile or an unbothered smirk to hide behind, Darius saw that downturned, lost look to his pale blue eyes. </p>
<p>            “Your uncle and me are in for the night,” he said while walking to the side of the roof. “I’m lighting the menorah if you wanna come inside for that, but you don’t have to. Just come down if the snow really picks up, okay?” </p>
<p>           Darius nodded with a glance to the snow sticking on the edges of his dad’s scarf wrapped over him. The baby blue fabric turned dark as the snow slowly melted.</p>
<p>           Steve stepped down the side of their cabin, sliding down the gutter. He stopped just before his head went under. “Darius?” </p>
<p>           He looked over to his father’s white hair nearly blending in with the snow atop the roof. </p>
<p>            “Just…” He paused, the Christmas lights sending red and green shadows across his hair. His face was downcast, and Darius couldn’t make out his expression. But he heard that soft voice again. “Just keep warm for your mum’s sake, alright?”</p>
<p>           He watched his father descend down without an answer. “Okay, dad,” Darius said to no one.</p>
<p>           Weighed down by piling snow, the scarf felt infinitely heavier by the silence settling over the countryside.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. It's a Confusing Life</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Darius comes down with the hopes of sneaking in and avoiding his family. Instead, he watches the usual spat between his dad and uncle take an unexpected, emotional turn. Some not so fond memories get dredged up, and Darius is reluctant to take his uncle's advice. But, tis the season, right?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>WARNING: Mentions of past violence and childhood trauma. And Steve just, in general, being bat-shit crazy to have as a father.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>It’s a Confusing Life</h1>
<hr/>
<p>            Within the hour, Darius found himself curled on the deck. The wooden porch swing heaved and creaked with the blizzard, nearly rocking Darius to sleep if not for the bitter wind and frost on his cheeks. He wrapped dad’s scarf tight around his neck and face. With only enough room for his eyes to watch the Romanian countryside disappear into the snow, Darius wondered if it was safe to go inside. </p>
<p>            Dinner was long over; he heard pots and skillets clanging by the kitchen window, a sign that their nightly routine was underway. His dad and uncle would chat for a bit, watch something on the box TV—maybe Fiddler on the Roof since uncle loved it so much, then retire to their room or study for the night. Darius just had to make it another half-hour or so. After the fire went low, he could sneak in, shovel some leftovers into his mouth, then fall into the couch and blare <em>Run the Jewels</em> until he conked out—</p>
<p>            “You let him drink on the roof?” Uncle Darren’s voice, though muffled from inside the cabin, shocked Darius. It rang with the same Irish twang as his mum’s, something that only amplified emotions like concern and disappointment. </p>
<p>            “He’s fine,” he heard dad reply. “He’s out on the porch now, anyway.” </p>
<p>            Darius looked to the window just on the other side of the deck, certain his father couldn’t see around bloody corners. He saw the orange light shudder over the snow as their figures moved around the kitchen. If he was there with them, or even on the couch and eavesdropping on their usual spats, he would have seen uncle lay down <em>that </em>look. It was a kind of shift to his eyes, a stare he’d point across the breakfast table after dad got on his worn soapbox about Mr. Crepsley. </p>
<p>            “Steve—” He heard uncle sigh. </p>
<p>            “Let me parent my kid, Dare,” dad snapped.</p>
<p>            He wasn’t even in the room, yet Darius jerked back at the sharp tone.</p>
<p>            “How is that parenting?” Uncle didn’t sound phased. But his shadow moved around dad like he was crossing land mines. “You can’t just leave him alone when things get tough, Steve.” </p>
<p>            “I didn’t leave him; I’m giving him fucking space!” He shouted, loud enough for Darius to make out the reactionary clench of his father’s jaw. “That’s what you said when we bloody picked him up, right?” He asked in a lower voice.</p>
<p>            The shadows shuddered again, uncle certainly shaking his head. “Space is one thing, but I just don’t want him to feel lonely or unwanted.”</p>
<p>            “Well, that’s his fucking choice,” dad spat. </p>
<p>            Darius rolled his eyes. “Arsehole,” he muttered under his fogging breath. </p>
<p>            “He can come in whenever the fuck he wants, but if he wants to be a brat about everything, that’s on him.” </p>
<p>            “Steve—” Uncle chided.</p>
<p>            “It is!” </p>
<p>            Slowly, shadows and shuddering lights across snow turned to men arguing behind clear glass. Despite the wind and ice pelting down, Darius couldn’t help but peer into the cabin. He saw uncle standing in front of his father, pushing dark bangs out of his face to look at him. Dad’s back was towards the window, and his face was turned away from uncle. His fingers and gaze viced the lip of a scotch glass instead. </p>
<p>            “You’re his dad,” Darren said, now in full view. He wore an oversized Christmas sweater, contrasting not only with Steve’s all-black ensemble but his concerned expression. “You have to go above and beyond to connect with him.” </p>
<p>            “I’m trying, Dare,” said dad. “But he fights me every damn step of the way. If it wasn’t for his mum, he wouldn’t even think about spending the holidays with me.” </p>
<p>            “He’s 15, this is totally normal for boys his age. Hell, even Annie is having trouble with him lately.” </p>
<p>            Darius winced at the mention. </p>
<p>            He and his mum used to fight a lot. They’d have drag-out shouting matches about the same thing over and over again: <em>“Who’s my dad?!”</em> Darius would always scream. But after Darius met his father, his mum being none the wiser to why his bedroom window would be left unlocked some nights, a different question formed: <em>“Where’s my dad?!” </em></p>
<p>            He felt the cold seep through his pants when he rested on his knees. The snow melted on contact and he sank two inches to where his eyes barely crested over the sill. But with those memories raging in his head, he wanted to sink straight through the ground. </p>
<p>            And yet Dad just waved away the sentiment, opting to drink as a response. </p>
<p>            He saw uncle sigh into his knuckles as his brows knitted together. “I really think you should go talk to him, love.” </p>
<p>            “Dare,” dad warned. </p>
<p>            “I know he’s your son, but he’s <em>mine </em>too, right? We’re married for Christ’s sake! He’s my nephew, but he feels like mine, same with Shancus, Urcha, and Lilia. If anything happened to him, I just…” Darren took a moment there, breathing in and letting it loose as he rubbed the tension between his brows. “Just go talk to him, Steve. God, I felt so lonely around Larten because—” </p>
<p>            “Don’t you fucking compare me to Creepsley!” He slammed his scotch on the counter, sending up half of it onto the block wood top. </p>
<p>            Darius jerked back, falling on his elbows. He forced his body to stay put, willing his heart to slow down and keep his ribs intact. </p>
<p>            But Darren didn’t flinch. His face softened behind the frosting glass. “Oh, love,” he took Dad’s hand from the scotch, “I didn’t mean it like that.” </p>
<p>            He shook his head, trying and failing to shake his husband off. “Then how’d you mean it?”</p>
<p>            Darren pressed into Steve’s chest, resting his chin atop his collar bone while he looked up into his eyes. “I just meant you should go talk to him. Invite him down to spend time with us, maybe? I can pop in a movie, or we can start decorating the tree tonight.” </p>
<p>            Dad just shook his head again. “He’s just gonna say no,” he said in a low voice, almost completely muffled by the glass, wood, and mounting storm. </p>
<p>            “You don’t know that.”</p>
<p>            “Yeah, I do,” he nearly laughed. “What, I got his fucking room wrong so now I don’t know a thing about my own bloody son?” His hands went up in frustration, running through his hair as he looked up to the ceiling. His laughter petered out though, turning into something Darius couldn’t distinguish. “Now I’m as bad as Creepsley or, fuck," his voice hitched, "bad as <em>my dad?” </em></p>
<p>            But uncle calmed him right back down. His hands wrapped around him, rubbing his back in slow, calming circles. “No, love,” uncle’s voice tapered off and nearly blended with the storm. “You’re not, you’re not…” Darius could only make out the words by reading his uncle’s lips before he buried his face into dad’s shoulder. </p>
<p>            Dad wrapped an arm around uncle, but the other was slack at his side. </p>
<p>            The scotch glass sat on the countertop, staring at Darius down from the window. It shined in the warm light, glinting a wet, amber tint. </p>
<p>            Dad’s hand found the glass again, rolling it between his fingers, swirling the scotch up for the last drink. But as he brought it to his lips, he stopped. He set the glass back down on the counter and embraced uncle tight with both arms instead.</p>
<p>            In his awe, Darius almost didn’t notice Darren’s eyes. They met past the glass and falling snow, and Darius dropped to his back. How the hell would he explain himself?! He didn’t mean to spy—and was it really spying when they were shouting at each other? Would he have to suffer through one of those awkward sofa conversations, where his dad has to sit him down and explain domestic spats and alcoholic tendencies?</p>
<p>            Fuck that, he’d rather have the puberty talk or the ‘it’s okay to fancy blokes’ conversation again—</p>
<p>            A sharp rapping came from the window and he nearly screeched. </p>
<p>            Uncle stared down at him groveling in the snow. He flicked his head towards the living room, and his hand beckoned Darius through the window. He wouldn’t drag Darius inside, at least not physically. He’d level a worried glance over breakfast tomorrow morning, maybe whisper updates to his mum through the receiver—he’d make Darius <em>regret </em>not coming inside. </p>
<p>            Darius opened the heavy dark-stained door, frost deep in his bones and ice melting into his boots. He’d be shoveling the driveway tomorrow morning, no doubt. </p>
<p>            When he first arrived less than a week ago, he couldn’t believe his dad and uncle built this place. He knew about the death traps in the Edinburgh vaults (he even did a few crayon doodles on those earlier drafts that dad just <em>loved </em>to wave in his face) and how meticulous of a builder he was. But walking through a regular house, a <em>cozy </em>house even—it didn’t feel real. </p>
<p>            A quaint living room with an open red-brick fireplace; a small kitchen off to the side with a wood-burning stove and a built-in breakfast nook; a master bedroom at the back of the house filled with uncle’s books and journals; a study for dad’s crossbows and other toys; a shed out back where dad and uncle forged their weapons and stored firewood; a small bedroom filled with horror films and rock CDs on the top floor that no one slept in. </p>
<p>            It was all painfully normal. </p>
<p>            The Christmas decorations didn’t help, either. Uncle insisted on a tree, so he chopped down the biggest evergreen that would fit the den and hauled it in himself. The lights and tinsel were already on the tree that first day Darius arrived. Uncle wanted them all to decorate it together and dragged Darius through the Christmas markets for overpriced ornaments to accomplish the feat. They didn’t do Christmas, or any holidays really, at the mountain apparently. So uncle had over two decades of repressed Yuletide cheer just clawing through the cabin door. </p>
<p>            Dad didn’t have a big hand in the decorating. Though he did have some sort of hang up on mistletoe, he mainly let uncle tangle himself up in tinsel while he tended the menorah nightly. It was brushed silver, caked in decades of wax, and utterly ancient-looking atop the new hardwood table. The wax was a luck thing carried on from his great-grandmother to his grandmother to his dad. Darius only knew that it was lucky to keep all those generations melted together. But dad didn’t talk much about that. </p>
<p>            Not that Darius cared, anyway. </p>
<p>            Uncle Darren stood inside the fireplace, cleaning out the grease and soot from dinner. “Hey,” his voice echoed up the chimney when the door clicked open. He stepped out—crawled, actually—with a dusting of soot across his knees, cheeks, and hair. “Everything alright?” </p>
<p>            Darius dispatched his boots, parka, and jumper in a collection of groans and sighs. </p>
<p>            Uncle gave a sheepish smile. “Yeah, I figured,” he sighed. He walked back to the kitchen, ruffing the frost from Darius’s yellow hair on the way. “Heard bits of the spat you and your dad got into.” He pointed to the chimney, and Darius remembered his riveting number on ale. </p>
<p>            “I might’ve chewed him out a bit,” he conceded. After it happened, Darius waited for the vindication to come. He sat up there for a long time, sipping from the flask to keep warm and ignoring the snow pelting down. But it never felt right. He just felt cold. </p>
<p>            “I’ll say,” said Darren at the stove. “When your dad came in with nothing to say—and a real feat that is—I figured it got a bit more heated than I thought.” He ladled up two mugs of a strong, merlot colored beverage. A wafting of cinnamon, cardamom, and illegal smelling alcohol wafted through the kitchen and dining room. “Practically had to pry him open just to get a word out. He would have gone straight to the study if I hadn’t begged him to talk to me, which Gannen will never believe. Usually can’t speak a full sentence before Steve cuts in, so bloody Christmas miracle this is.” </p>
<p>            “Kinda backward, isn’t it?” Darius blurted. He couldn’t shake the chill, or how his dad’s scarf still weighed down on his shoulders. “I’m the one that ends up feeling awful, not him.” His hands twisted in the light blue fabric before he finally cast it off and the smell of cigarettes, mum’s house, and the cold with it.</p>
<p>            Uncle settled next to him at the table, sliding the mulled wine over to him before taking a slow drink. “Well, I don’t think he feels particularly good, either,” he said. </p>
<p>            “That’s even worse, then,” Darius grunted and pushed the cup away. “He can’t handle that I don’t like Salem’s Lot or shooting things to death with a damn crossbow, basically that I’m not a damn copy of him, but I still feel like I’m expected to apologize?” </p>
<p>            “I don’t think your dad’s wanting an apology from you, Darius,” said Darren softly. “Parents want to connect with their kids, share their hobbies. Now, most don’t go about it the way Steve does,” he took a drink then and glanced away, “but still. He’s trying to connect with you all the ways he knows how.”</p>
<p>            “Christ, now you sound like mum,” he said. “So, what? I’m just supposed to hang out with him and act like everything’s normal now? Cause he’s ‘better’ now?” </p>
<p>            “Tis the season,” he raised a brow and took another drink. The mug was nearly empty in two swigs. </p>
<p>            Darius stared at the huge, tin cup still steaming. “Maybe you should slow down, uncle…” He remembered the flask still in his jacket. It hung off the coat rack, half-full of muddled red wine and scotch. </p>
<p>            “Are you kidding? Consoling your dad sobered me up, I got to work my way back!” He grinned. “Plus, I snagged the recipe from Larten a few years ago. He didn’t celebrate the holidays, but he’d make a batch of this stuff every winter when it first started snowing.” Uncle smiled softly at that. He didn’t talk much about Mr. Crepsley, especially not when dad was around. </p>
<p>            Darius didn’t know too much about their history. He remembered bits from what his dad told him all those years ago, but he wasn’t exactly credible then. </p>
<p>            “But don’t tell your dad any of that,” said uncle. “He loves this stuff, and if he knew this was Larten’s he’d throw a proper tantrum.” </p>
<p>            He rolled his eyes but gave a terse grunt. </p>
<p>            Darren’s smile faltered. He got up from the table, taking his empty mug with him and a defeated kind of limp to his gait. He set the empty one in the basin but grabbed a fresh one from the wooden cabinet overhead in the same motion. Turning to the simmering pot on the stove, uncle just couldn’t let the silence settle. “Still can’t believe Steve let you drink some of this, up on the roof too, for Christ’s sake,” he said from the kitchen. “This stuff knocks him on his arse…”</p>
<p>            “I mean, your drinks are fucking strong uncle—"</p>
<p>            Darius got hit by that withering glance thrown across the room. </p>
<p>            “Sorry, too ‘freaking’ strong,” he corrected. </p>
<p>            Uncle nodded to himself and went back to cleaning out the dishes in the sink. “If I take you back to Annie a cursing drunkard with a broken leg, she’d skin us both, you know.” </p>
<p>            Darius said nothing to that. He watched his uncle go about the kitchen, drying dishes and tending to the boiling pot of vampiric strength ‘holiday cheer’ roaring away on the stove. </p>
<p>            Uncle fished out sticks of cinnamon and little bags of spices from the cast-iron Dutch oven, then sipped the wine from the tip of his wooden spoon. He hummed contentedly at the taste, licking his lips before diving back in.</p>
<p>            He prodded at the flames with an iron poker, fed more logs to the firebox, fiddled with the heat until it was just right for simmering—all while spooning more mulled wine into his mouth.</p>
<p>            “Good as Mr. Crepsley’s?” Darius asked. </p>
<p>            Uncle shook his head. “Better,” he grinned. </p>
<p>            Darius half-smiled at the sentiment. It was like granddad bragging about his lawn or something. For a vampire prince, he was pretty domesticated.</p>
<p>            “You know,” began uncle again, “Steve talks non-stop about how good of a shot you are.” </p>
<p>            Darius rolled his eyes. “I better be,” he said. “Been trained since I was six to kill things.” </p>
<p>            “Well, that’s a common father-son thing, right? My dad always wanted to take me pheasant hunting, and Larten taught me how to kill and cook up rabbits.” </p>
<p>            “Yeah, totally the same as hunting vampires,” he quipped, “or your bloody uncle.”</p>
<p>            Darren clammed up at the mention. </p>
<p>            Darius left it there, staring out the window into the blizzard while he sat in silence. The light from the menorah was still going, but it wouldn’t last much longer. Those shuddering orange lights were slowly dying as the storm raged on, and Darius would have been content to just watch them fade out till he was left in the dark. </p>
<p>            “I just meant,” uncle started up again, walking back to the table with his mug. “Well, he talks about you a lot—where he can, at least. Steve’s just happy you’re here,” he smiled and sat down. </p>
<p>            Darius glanced back from the window with a cutting eye. </p>
<p>            Uncle bulked. “And, of course, I’m happy you’re here too!” He added. “We’re both happy, over the moon, to have you here for the holidays—" </p>
<p>            “I get it, uncle.” He didn’t mean for it to sound so final, but uncle fell silent again. </p>
<p>            They watched the blizzard rage on, sipping from their respective drinks without so much as a word. The candles drew lower and lower, and Darius thought he’d finally get through a night without suffering through his uncle’s ramblings. </p>
<p>            But Darren really couldn’t take the quiet. “You know how I knew Steve was my best friend?” He asked. </p>
<p>            “Before or after he tried to kill you?” </p>
<p>            Darren served a near-murderous look over his cup.</p>
<p>            “Sorry, sore spot...” Darius tried to hide behind the menorah, and when that failed, he shrunk into the back of the chair. </p>
<p>            “It’s amazing how little bits of your father seep through,” he quipped before sipping. </p>
<p>            “Come on, don’t compare me to dad!” </p>
<p>            His uncle grinned. “Sore spot?”</p>
<p>            Darius’s bottom lip hung in a small pout. He tucked into the mug, avoiding uncle’s gaze.</p>
<p>            “But I knew we were best mates when we talked for hours about utter nonsense. Spiders, vampires, horror movies, football, what he found on these, honestly, in retrospect, very dangerous monster sighting forums, all the dumb short stories I use to write—we could just talk forever.” Uncle smiled behind his mug, the light catching how his green eyes gleamed under his dark hair. “And Steve always wanted to watch horror movies with me. He pestered me to watch <em>Salem’s Lot</em> for the longest time, and when we finally did—I don’t know, it felt special. I was terrified out of my mind, and your dad was scared too, even though he’d seen it a thousand times. But he loved that movie—he still loves that movie. And then it just sort of became our go-to. We could talk forever about anything, but when I was having a rough day or when he got into a bad spat with his mum or if I was ever feeling down, we’d lock ourselves in his room and watch <em>Salem’s Lot</em>.” </p>
<p>            Darius quirked a brow, almost disturbed by how his uncle rested his cheek into his palm with a lopsided smile. “So, you knew you were best friends cause dad kept making you watch some dumb VHS?” Now Darius had to take a drink. He took one stiff swig (or what he thought was a stiff swig) and gagged into his hand immediately. </p>
<p>            “No, I knew because he kept sharing all the things he loved with me. Sure, he comes on pretty strong—and maybe scarily strong—” he laughed into his cup. The menorah light washed over his face, giving him a warm glow while he smiled at the thought. “But that’s your dad,” he smiled even wider, “and that’s how you know he loves you. If he keeps trying to get you to watch old horror movies, start up conversations about World War II, Black Sabbath—which I got him into—then you know.” </p>
<p>            “Why does that have to include that bloody crossbow hanging over me while I sleep?” Darius asked. “Yeah, I guess it’s a happy memory for <em>him, </em>teaching a freaking kid how to shoot a guy through the chest, but it’s not all that rosy for me.” </p>
<p>            But, honestly, when he thought about the crossbow now, all he could think about was that rabbit twitching in the snow. He saw Principal O'Shaughnessy, too. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>            It was an unbearably hot September night. School had been out for hours, leaving the lot and streets empty. Even the flats and homes across the way had turned out their porch lights. The flowers around the neighborhood went into a late bloom, and their scent oiled the night air. But that sweetness was tainted by a thick, irony smell that churned the 10-year-old’s stomach. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            Darius wasn’t sure what he was seeing at first. But then, all too quickly, he pieced it together with each flicker a lone car park light. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            Dad’s hair was like a neon sign under the night. He raised from his meal, leaving Principal O’Shaughnessy motionless on the blacktop. With his head cracked open, a dark pool slowly seeped into the ground. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            “Hey there, son,” Dad said softly while standing over the corpse of his principal. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            Darius nearly jumped out of his skin, realizing only then that he was alone and out in the open. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            “What’re you doing out this late?” The blood was already drying at the corners of his mouth. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            He clutched his crossbow tight, the wooden pummel and metal limb clattering against his jacket buttons. </em>
</p>
<p><em>            His father looked him up, stalling on the crossbow. “Shit, that’s right,” Dad let out a small chuckle. “I was supposed to practice with you today. I’m sorry, I</em>—<em>” his finger twitched to the body laying on the ground. “Got caught up with Mr. O’Shaughnessy after the parent conference.” </em></p>
<p>
  <em>            He couldn’t move. The heap on the ground fixed him in place, and his father’s expression was covered by the creeping shadows. But when the light flashed in those small flickers, Darius didn’t like what he saw. His blue eyes almost glowed with the light, his face was utterly relaxed, and his tongue swiped across his teeth to gather the remains. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            He looked like a monster. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            “Come here, son.” Dad bent to his knees, motioning for Darius to come to his side. “It’s just me, alright?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            He felt his knees buckle at the thought. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            “I know you’re probably really confused about what you saw,” he said slowly. His tone was so normal like he was asking him about his day or how mum was doing. “But just come here and we can talk about it.” Dad stepped forward slowly, leaving the spotlight of the flickering lamp overhead. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            His body turned to shadows, and Darius jumped back out of instinct. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            “Oh, Darius,” he heard Dad croon, but he couldn’t see him. “Don’t look at me like that…”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            He turned on his heel, letting the crossbow fall to the hot asphalt, and tried to run. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            But the darkness clutched and pulled him backward. He was pressed into his father’s solid, warm chest. He smelled like sweat, iron, and the lilacs from Grandma Angie’s garden. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            Darius tried to scream, but all that came out was a pitiful cry. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            “Hey, hey,” he shushed, his fingers running over Darius’s hair. “Don’t be scared. I’m here, I got you.” He pressed a chaste kiss to his head, staining the locks dark red. “Dad’s got you.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            But he sobbed harder into Steve’s coat, screwing his eyes shut and praying that he’d wake up. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>            “Ever told him that?” Asked uncle Darren, snapping Darius back. </p>
<p>            But Darius brought the fear back with him. “I shouldn’t have to!” He shouted, wanting to tear his hair out and toss the mug straight through the damn window. “Why don’t you or mum or <em>bloody dad </em>get that? Why do you all act like this is normal? How do you guys just shack up, play house, and pretend like everything’s <em>bloody normal?!” </em></p>
<p>            Darren stared at his nephew, too stunned by the outburst to even react. He just sat there in silence; the mug paused in his grasp. </p>
<p>            Darius simmered in his seat, watching uncle process in trickling light and wax.</p>
<p>            “This is our normal,” he said finally in a soft voice. “Me and your dad love each other… and how we got together is odd, I know that, but we’re family—you’re <em>our </em>son.” </p>
<p>            Uncle Darren gave him another look. Not withering, but one of such utter sympathy and understanding that Darius could only slump back. </p>
<p>            “I think if you just talk to him, kinda like how you did up there and how you’re doing with me—well, I don’t know if he’d understand, but he’d try.” </p>
<p>            He sipped on the spiced wine, despite it still making him gag on reflex. It tasted awful but his brain was going light, and he’d rather have that than the swirling anger and guilt. Maybe a few more sips would make him stop caring, too. “Not like he’d listen, anyway.” </p>
<p>            Darren gave him a small smile. “Well, he heard you on the roof, it seemed.” </p>
<p>            Darius huffed and went to contest that, but uncle was already on his feet and making his way to the kitchen. He ladled up a new mug and handed it to his nephew. </p>
<p>            “Come on,” he said, gesturing for Darius to follow him out of the breakfast nook. “Bring this up to your dad and talk about moving the crossbow to the den or something.” </p>
<p>            Darius went red, and not from the slight buzz working him over. “Uncle, no, please—” he stammered. “Let’s just leave this till the morning—or never actually sounds much better.” </p>
<p>            But uncle, curse his vampire speed, was already at the bottom of the stairs. “Love~!” He called. “We’re bringing you up a refill.”</p>
<p>            Darius quickly gulped down half of his spiced wine. With nowhere to go and a very insistent uncle, he creaked up the stairs with the overly chipper vampire prince behind him. It seemed uncle finally got his buzz back, getting properly ‘cheerful’ for Christmas, Hanukkah, Yuletide, and every other freaking holiday.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed! </p>
<p>I feel that in any AU where Steve actually tries to be a father, he still royal screws it up. But I feel him trying is really the most important aspect of this, even if how he goes about is less than ideal. </p>
<p>Again, my attempts at references to popular Christmas movies is horrible XD 'It's a Confusing Life,' 'It's a Wonderful Life,' get it??? Like I said, terrible lol</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Gold Wax</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Darius and his father finally have a heart-to-heart in a way the teen never thought possible. Whether he forgives Steve for all that he's done is still up in the air, but can he find peace in this new normal Darren and Steve constructed? Well, family photos, re-decorating, and Mr.Crepsley's mulled wine recipe can go a long way.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning: Mentions of Steve's plans for Larten from Book 9, fluffy father-son moments between Darius and Steve, and pretty cute flashback considering the source material.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>Gold Wax</h1>
<hr/>
<p>            Steve Leonard stood at the foot of Darius’s bed with a wooden crate tucked under his arm. In his hand was a worn VHS tape, a relic he’d yet to look away from when his son stepped past the threshold. </p>
<p>            Darius’s room used to be just a blank frame. For the past eight months, Dad would prattle on during their phone calls and send him video updates on WhatsApp. And, in Darius’s humble opinion, Gannen should put a cap on his Lord’s data plan. His phone would blow up in class or when he was at Oggy’s with video after video of wooden floors getting installed, built-in bookshelves cutting into the walls, double-paned windows with clear stain glass offset with reclaimed blah blah blah blah—</p>
<p>            After months and hours of footage (and voicemails that went along the lines of <em>‘Check your damn phone! What, you finally get a girl? Don’t make me call your mum—Or Oggy, I know that fat little bastard will pick up.’), </em>Darius’s room was finished. </p>
<p>            It was filled top to bottom with the contents of his father’s childhood home. An air of nicotine, mothballs, and mildewed cardboard stuck to everything. That first day, when Uncle and Dad showed off that blast from the 90s, the stench of hand-me-downs weighed him. The bookcases, flush with the walls and glinting across from the windows, displayed titles in Hebrew, Greek, French, and a smattering of other languages Darius couldn’t even read. Dad’s full collection of monster books, horror VHS tapes, CDs of some bands called <em>The Sex Pistols </em>and <em>Dio, </em>and replicas of World War II weaponry practically overflowed onto the dark wood floors. And the crossbow laid on the wall, pointed above where Darius’s head was supposed to rest. That sight, looking into what formed and raised his dad, weighed on him too. </p>
<p>            Now it was nearly a blank frame again. Dad stripped the shelves that lined his room. The books, music, tapes<em>—</em>everything was heaped on the ground, waiting to get packed up into wooden crates. But that crossbow hanged above Darius’s bed. </p>
<p>            “Dad?” He called from the entryway. </p>
<p>            He waved with that tape still in hand but didn’t look back. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll be done before tomorrow’s over. Just gotta figure out where to put everything.” </p>
<p>            Before Darius could so much as blink in confusion, uncle slid past him and settled at dad’s side. </p>
<p>            Seeing the cup of mulled wine, he laid the VHS tape and crate on the bed to down half of the mug in one go. </p>
<p>            Uncle couldn’t hold the smile back when dad grimaced at the mouthful. “You don’t have to down it so fast, love.” </p>
<p>            “Gotta keep up,” he patted uncle’s hip, “you’re on your fifth bloody one.” He smirked over the rim before swilling down another quarter. </p>
<p>            Uncle clicked his tongue with a playful ‘tsk,’ resting his chin on dad’s shoulder to look into his eyes. “And you’re a lightweight,” he said softly. “Nurse the rest of that one, and if you’re not absolutely smashed you can have more.” </p>
<p>            “That an order, Prince Shan?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I wouldn’t dare think of such a thing<em>,</em>” he grinned and raised up on the balls of his feet, “<em>my Lord</em>.”</p>
<p>            Dad conceded with a pointed smirk over his shoulder before they shared a chaste kiss. </p>
<p>            “Are you moving me out?” Darius asked finally. He didn’t know what was worse: listening to their spats or their horrid, mushy, discount <em>Game of Thrones</em> banter. </p>
<p>            Steve quirked a brow at his son. “Are you knackered?” </p>
<p>            “Are <em>you</em>?” Darius shot back. </p>
<p>            Uncle Darren quickly side-stepped dad, exiting just as fast as he went in. “I better feed the fire,” he said before crossing the threshold, feigning tact and smoothness. “Getting a bit chilly, isn’t it?” </p>
<p>            “Babe, don’t<em>—</em>”</p>
<p>            “Uncle, come back<em>—</em>” </p>
<p>            But Darren was already at the bottom, paying no heed to his groaning nephew and husband. “I’ll leave you two to finish up!” He called from the first floor, a whole world and then some away from <em>this. </em></p>
<p>            Darius was left with his father and a dozen half-empty boxes. </p>
<p>            “I was, uh…” Dad hesitated, bouncing between Darius and the empty walls. “Trying to get your room ready for you. Again.” He gestured around to the bleeding shelves. “Started with the easy stuff, like the books and movies,” he pointed to the filled boxes under the window. “Probably stow all this up in the attic or study.”</p>
<p>            The storm outside was still raging, but Darius had barely noticed the howling snow and wind. “Oh,” he said. And that’s all he could manage to say. </p>
<p>            The pelting ice-filled in the roaring silence.</p>
<p>            “Really think I’d kick you out?” </p>
<p>            “You seemed mad when you were talking with uncle<em>—</em>” Darius tried to shrug off his father’s intense gaze. But it crawled up his skin, forcing out ugly things he didn’t want to think about. “I don’t know, dad,” he said. “I don’t know what you’ll do anymore when you’re pissed off.” </p>
<p>            He sank into the bed. The crate and books bounced up in a clatter, settling while he rubbed a hand over his face before clasping them back together. He thumbed at the cross-shaped scar, rolling the tight skin in and out of Darius’s peripheral. </p>
<p>            “You know,” Darius picked one of the old books dad laid open on his bed, a World War II textbook with what he thought to be Yiddish or German scrawled out into the margins. “You could’ve just asked me what I wanted to keep.” </p>
<p>            They both knew that was a shite attempt; Darius didn’t want a damn thing in here.</p>
<p>            And Dad caught the hallow words as they echoed back. “Sounded like you wanted to burn the place down.” </p>
<p><em>            Damn, if anyone should appreciate a lie, it’s bloody dad.</em> “I just said it's filled with crap <em>you</em> like.” </p>
<p>            “Crap, huh?” He tapped on the book in Darius’s hand. “That was your grandmother’s, you know. Belonged to her uncle, and that fuck killed Nazis.” </p>
<p>            “How would I know that?” He snapped the book shut and served an eye-roll that strained his forehead muscles. “You don’t tell me anything, especially about your family. I didn’t even know we were Jewish till, like, a month ago…” </p>
<p>            Dad’s jaw clenched. The muscle clicked under the stubble outlining his cheekbones. His teeth ground back and forth in frustration, and he began grinding his thumb deep into the scar. </p>
<p>            Darius remembered those signs. You didn’t have to be up-close to notice; you could be a whole parking lot away, hidden by a hedge or trees with only flickering synthetic lights.</p>
<p>            But then dad’s shoulders caved in. “Yeah,” he sighed,  “and that’s on me, you not knowing about<em>—</em>well, anything about <em>me.</em>” With his elbows braced on top of his knees, a deep sigh heaved out of his body. Steve patted the spot next to him on the bed.</p>
<p>            Hesitation was a regular feeling for Darius. He stared at the place next to his father for a while, watching those sharp nails catch on the blanket. </p>
<p>            But he walked across and sat next to him. A clattering of VHS tapes followed before a painfully familiar tape skirted into view. </p>
<p>            “I know <em>Salem’s Lot</em> is your favorite movie,” Darius said suddenly while staring at the tape adhered to his dad’s existence.</p>
<p>            Steve turned only an inch before smiling at the VHS. “You know why?” He asked, taking the faded dark blue cover into his hands again.</p>
<p>            Darius shook his head.</p>
<p>            “It was a birthday <em>and </em>Hanukkah present when I was 10. Kinda shite, it’s not a fixed holiday but it was close enough to my birthday that year. My dad saw it as a way to kill two birds with one stone and not visit me twice, so I got <em>Salem’s Lot</em> as a late birthday, early-Hanukkah gift.” He rolled his thumbs over the washed-out lettering like they were a part of his skin. “Scared the piss outta me when I first saw it,” he laughed. “But I was a weird fucking kid. I liked being scared then. Plus, I still liked my dad an’all, so I liked watching it. Felt special, I guess.” </p>
<p>            Darius nodded. “So, it’s your favorite cause your dad got it for you?” He eyed the crossbow gleaming in the warm light and flickering shadows of falling snow. </p>
<p>            He jeered at the idea. “Cause my shitty, dead-beat dad pulled it out of the bargain bin? Fuck no,” he said. “It was my favorite cause I used to make your uncle watch it with me. He’d get so fucking scared; he’d hide under my covers or tuck right into my side…” He let a rolling laugh slip out. “God, he was so jumpy, too. Practically crawled into my lap back then.” Dad smiled down at the VHS tape in his hands, then held it up for Darius. “Best present ever.” </p>
<p>            Nodding was the only thing Darius could do.</p>
<p>            The silence settled again. It was filled with Dad grinning down at the tape, high-pitched whistles from the wind coiling around the woods and cabin, and Darius observing the far too gentle scene.</p>
<p>            “So, what about you?” Dad asked as if he was genuinely interested. “Not one for the classics,” he tapped the cover with a knowing smile. “Fan of <em>Coronation Street</em> like your mum, then?”</p>
<p>            Darius gave it a thought. A part of him wondered what dad had to gain from knowing this, how he could use it down the line. Yet he looked to the blank walls again. “Nature documentaries,” he said slowly, giving it some thought as well. “Mrs. Bas would leave it on the telly when she babysat us. Me and Oggy would watch <em>March of the Penguins</em> a lot. He’d always cry when the eggs hatched…” </p>
<p>            “Why’s the weeping butterball your best mate?”</p>
<p>            Darius sighed pointedly. “Dad.”</p>
<p>            “Sorry, sorry!” He clapped Darius’s shoulder with a laugh. Dad always loved dogging on Oggy. Darius had no idea why<em>—</em>maybe it was just a sixth sense Augustine Bas was blessed with<em>—</em>but if dad so much as <em>smiled </em>at him, he’d balk.</p>
<p>            “So, maybe we fill up the shelves with some Jane Goodall tapes,” dad said with a wave to the bare walls. </p>
<p>            “DVDs, dad.”</p>
<p>            “You're getting bloody VHSs,” he quipped back. “An’ what about music? Sports? Not a fan of metal, apparently.” He tapped the wooden box to which another clattering of ancient CDs rattled back. “But you still like football, right? Your mum said you were pretty good, and from what I saw she was bloody right.”</p>
<p>            That gave the young teen pause. “You never came to any of my games,” he said.</p>
<p>            Dad flashed that sharp grin. “You never <em>saw </em>me at any of your games.”</p>
<p>            Darius shook off that admission to stalking, annoyed with himself for actually finding it funny because, well, <em>of course dad would do that. </em>“Yeah,” he said. “Me and Oggy are going for teams this year. And I’m pulling for Tottenham next year for the premier league.” </p>
<p>            “Tommy Jones’s team?” Dad raised a brow before giving a sly smirk. “You know he has the hots for your mum, right?” </p>
<p>            “Jesus, dad, no he doesn’t,” Darius said with only a hint of amusement. </p>
<p>            “Oi, that’s a good thing! She can butter him up and score free shite for you. Hell,” he gave a clipped laugh, looking out the window to the snow pelting their home. “He and Darren got close again, so maybe the Shans can work him from both sides. Could ask for a huge poster to go over your bed…” He pointed to where the crossbow hung. Dad tried to hide behind the mug, drinking up his strength. </p>
<p>            But Darius saw how his face cracked, his carefree smirk faltering. “You can just keep that in your study or something,” Darius said. “You don’t have to, like, get <em>rid </em>of it…” </p>
<p>            He straightened up his face, another smooth look rolling over the rim of his glass. “Yeah,” he said. “Could refashion or use it for parts, maybe.” </p>
<p>            Darius nodded but didn’t press. He ran a hand through his blond hair, uncertain of what to do with the silence. Dad was always talking<em>—</em>always. But when he fell silent, contemplative, Darius would feel his heart clench and his stomach turn. Dad was quiet before he killed Principal O'Shaughnessy. </p>
<p>            “You had really tiny hands when you were a kid,” Dad said suddenly, pulling Darius from the memory. He didn’t look to his son as he spoke; instead, he watched the crossbow still, as if it painted the story for him and he merely recounted the times. “Mean, kids are small, and I took that into account when I built it. But I guess you were undersized for your age? Feel like your mum was worried about that, least from what I can remember of the phone taps. But you were so small as a kid,” he chuckled. “I could tuck you up in one arm till you were six.” He repeated a motion Darius remembered too vividly. </p>
<p>            When he was a young child, and dad first started his ‘training,’ he’d get scooped up into his arms, cradled to sleep by stories of disemboweled vampires and roasting bodies. It was a wonder how he never had nightmares.</p>
<p>            “So,” dad continued, snapping Darius back to now, “when I finally gave it to you and you tore through the newspaper, you could barely get your fingers around the handgrip and trigger. Remember that?” He asked with the image of the arrow and steel of the crossbow reflected in his eyes. </p>
<p>            Darius was usually shaky on the memory. In fact, a lot of his memories of his youth were blurry, especially those with his dad. But the more his father spoke, the more Darius pieced together.</p>
<p>            “I had to measure your palms and forearms, and it was hell making you stand still. You were so excited that you didn’t want to put it down, and then you begged me to let you keep it<em>—</em>said you’d be big enough for it soon. God, you loved that thing…” his voice dropped then, empty like the glass viced in his fingers. “You even wanted yours to look just like mine.” </p>
<p>            And it was when Darius glanced back at the crossbow in those quieting seconds that he remembered. </p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>            Dad was always warm. Curled up on his chest and under the covers, Darius rubbed at his eyes to try and fight the far too comforting embrace of sleep. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            “—and the evil Creepy Creepsley crashed down onto the stakes,” Dad continued softly, his voice familiar and soothing, “burning from the inside out as the fire gobbled him up.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            Darius loved this story, especially the parts where Creepy Creepsley gets burned to a crisp and the hero saves the little boy. He nuzzled his cheek into the strong muscle beneath while the story went on, the smell of cigarettes and the outside, like a long walk through the park or a day playing football, wrapped him tightly. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            “We need to be going, my Lord,” said a deep voice just past the street light filtering through his curtains. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            Darius had heard it before nearly every night dad visited him. Sometimes he hated that voice; it made dad leave him all alone.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            His fingers curled into the warm chain around dad’s neck. “No,” he pouted through the haze of near slumber. “One more.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            Dad chuckled, and his chest rumbled under Darius’s cheek. “Alright,” he said, “one more for my little slayer.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            “My Lord, it’s nearing sunrise,” the voice sighed, closing in on them in hurried steps. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            “Enough, Gannen.” Dad didn’t raise his voice, but the way he said it made Darius shrink under the blankets more. “It’s one more, and he’ll be out before it’s over.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            A beat of silence passed.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            Darius laid still, listening to his father’s heartbeat to calm down and slowly drift back to his dreams.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            But then the footsteps and the voice retreated back to the shadows. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            Dad settled back into the bed, pressing soft words into the crown of his son’s head. “Hey, don’t be afraid. You’re a brave lad like me, there’s nothing to be scared of,” he cooed. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>            Darius nodded, but he tucked deeper into his father. And when he felt that strong arm hold him tight, tuck him close, and ground him, Darius drifted off before the story ever began.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>            They sat in silence for a few moments. The snow knocked on the windows, the sound fading into the pines and across the cabin. </p>
<p>            Dad stared into his empty cup, shoulders hanging down and his face out of sight. </p>
<p>            Darius’s, still half-full, reflected stagnant reds. </p>
<p>            Then the bed creaked as his father got up, breaking the silence and Darius’s train of blank thoughts. </p>
<p>            “I should take these downstairs,” he said and off-loaded the crate from Darius’s bed. He gathered up the boxes he could carry, tucking his family home and childhood under his arms. Then, in that single motion, he lifted the crossbow from the wall. He cradled it with his forearm and let the neck of the bow rest on his shoulder, like how you might carry a snoozing toddler to bed. “You’re in for the night?” Dad asked. </p>
<p>            He nodded, now taking stalk of his unsettlingly blank room. The clean slate felt so empty. </p>
<p>            “Me and Darren will keep the fire going in the living room, toss some more blankets on the couch too. But I’ll keep the furnace going up here, you know… if you decide to sleep here, I guess.”</p>
<p>            Darius nodded. He raised his head to say something, but dad was already out the door. </p>
<p>            He hesitated just past the threshold. Grounded to the doorframe by his hand, he looked back like he was going to say something<em>—</em>like he wanted to say something. </p>
<p>            But he walked down the stairs. </p>
<p>            Darius still sat on his bed, listening to his father’s descending steps. He listened all the way down, even heard Uncle Darren give him a sloppy, drunk kiss at the bottom of the staircase. That’s something you never really get over, your dad marrying your mum’s brother. But he guessed they were happy. </p>
<p>            He looked around his room again; the room his dad and uncle built inside their small cabin hidden from the world. Somehow, they removed themselves<em>—</em>a prince and a Lord<em>—</em>from opposing worlds to create their own. They put up four walls, made a home, and filled it up with all the things they loved. </p>
<p>            And they carved out a space just for Darius. </p>
<p>            He fell back on his bed, staring up to where the crossbow used to be. </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>            He slept on the sofa again. New light streamed in through the living room windows that morning while Darius folded up thick quilts. He freed up the couch before dad or uncle got up, nearly surprising Darren to an early grave when he offered to help around the house. He hauled in firewood from the shed, chopped down more pine for the hearth, shoveled the porch, all while snickering under his breath at uncle’s hangover. </p>
<p>            He got properly smashed last night, which was apparently a vampire tradition to welcome in any and all holidays. Hell, Darius even got to hear an encore performance of the “Prince of Ale” song last night around 1:00 A.M. It would have been hilarious if not for the sloppy snogging and… other sounds… echoing from the back room. Darius pushed that memory back into the repression vault in favor of talking with his uncle and not thinking about whatever the hell he did with dad.</p>
<p>            Despite that, uncle was a fun bloke. He was easy to talk to, hangover or not. He had a few great stories from his time at Vampire Mountain that he spun throughout the day. The Trials of Death sounded otherworldly, and how uncle could scrape by them alive, in one piece, and still manage to smile at <em>anything </em>was almost inspiring. He could go from showing off the scar above his right eye, dished out from a stalagmite that almost blinded him, to gushing over winter garland. </p>
<p>            And it was in that whiplash that Darius got roped into decorating the Christmas tree. </p>
<p>            “Higher?” He asked Darren, who stood below the ladder and supervised the whole affair. </p>
<p>            He scratched his cheek in thought. “No,” he said. “Bring it lower, it’s heavier so it needs more support from all the thicker branches towards the bottom, or else it’ll just slip off and break. That’s how my mum<em>—</em>your grandma Angie<em>—</em>decorated her tree.” He said fondly, taking the heavier ornaments from Darius and hanging them on the bottom of the tree. “She loved Christmas, always went all out for it. I think these were my grandma’s,” he held up the frosted glass orbs, age giving them a bronze hue that dazzled in the hearth. “Your mum was nice enough to let me and your dad have some. I think they were supposed to be a late wedding present, or maybe an early housewarming gift, but I can’t believe she didn’t want to keep these.” </p>
<p>            “Grandma gets new ornaments every year or something,” Darius said. “And our attic was getting overcrowded anyway. Plus, we spent most holidays at their place, so mum didn’t really bother with the tree most years.” He pulled another one, a hollow glass ball with a preserved spider suspended in the center. “Jesus, uncle…” </p>
<p>            “Oh, put that one in the back,” he swiftly tucked the ornament away from sight, hidden by pine needles and some well-placed string lights. “It’ll scare the piss out of your dad.” </p>
<p>            Darius made a mental note to move and angle it to face the stairs later. </p>
<p>            “But your grandma still goes all out for Christmas?”</p>
<p>            “Oh yeah,” Darius nodded. “She decorates the whole house and the garden, cooks up a huge meal with mince pies, puddings, a roast<em>—</em>” </p>
<p>            “She still makes her roast?” Asked uncle Darren, hand cupping his cheek and his eyes shining with the fire and a happy kind of sorrowfulness. </p>
<p>            “Yeah,” Darius said before climbing down from the tree. “I could ask mum for the recipe if you want.” </p>
<p>            He smiled, giving his nephew a tight hug around the shoulders. </p>
<p>            Darius shirked away but uncle already had him in his arms, ruffling up his hair into a frizzy blond mess. </p>
<p>            “You’re a good kid, you know that?” He hugged him tight, and Darius knew he wasn’t getting out of this. Darren may’ve been small for a vampire, but he was still a vampire<em>—</em>full of wiry strength and all. And, if Darius leaned into the hug, patted his uncle's arms, and stayed a bit longer than normal, it was all because of that. </p>
<p>            Trudging footsteps down the stairs interrupted their ‘moment.’ Darius looked up to see his father at the landing with the last of the boxes under his arms.</p>
<p>            What used to be Darius’s room was packed up, neatly stacked, and stared right at him. </p>
<p>            Dad had been working on that all day. Uncle brought him leftover soup and mulled wine in between chores and decorating, so he hadn’t come down at all unless he was hauling boxes or moving various knickknacks into unoccupied corners of their house. He looked tired, his stark white hair sticking up in unkempt spikes and his slippered feet dragging on the floor. </p>
<p>            “That all of it?” Darren asked, already moving the boxes in dad’s hands to the kitchen.</p>
<p>            “Yeah, just got one more box,” he said. Dad kissed the crown of uncle’s hair then made for the stairs again. As he climbed past the mid-step, he turned back. “Oi, Darius,” he called. “Come help me with this last one.”</p>
<p>            He looked back to his uncle with a raised brow, but Darren mouthed ‘Go on!’ and waved him up the stairs.</p>
<p>            So, with that bit of ‘encouragement’ from his uncle, Darius followed his father up.</p>
<p>            And, if he thought the room looked bare before, then this was desolate. It felt so much smaller void of everything that once filled the walls. Darius felt like the room shrank, pressing him closer to his father while he gestured to the empty wood paneling, bare desk, and stripped mattress.</p>
<p>            Aside from a small wooden box on said mattress, there was nothing. And that thought curled painfully in Darius’s chest.</p>
<p>            “Thought you might want to look through that one.” Steve gestured to the box, but he didn’t step past the threshold. </p>
<p>            Darius walked past, settling on his bed again, and was pulled to the single thing left in between those walls. He opened the box up and found his family smiling back from inside.</p>
<p>            There were framed pictures and loose photos of himself, Oggy, mum, grandma and grandpa, memories from Christmas and Easter holidays long past. There was one from his baptism, his mum in a modest Sunday dress smiling down at him while the priest poured water over his forehead. Grandpa Dermot stood in the background, tearing up with grandma. </p>
<p>            He gazed at those pictures with fervor. Darius pulled memory after memory out of that box, reliving all those tiny moments that built up his life. Him and Oggy at summer football camp, Easter egg hunts in grandma’s garden, Mr. Jones taking him to a Tottenham match, him in front of church<em>—</em></p>
<p>            “Dad…?” Darius half-asked, half-realized. “Is this you?” He held up a picture of a young boy in a dark suit, a weird sort of cap on his head, and a surly pout. </p>
<p>            Dad squinted at the photo, walking to the bed to get a closer look. He took the frame into his hands before letting out a soft chuckle. “Yup,” he smiled. “That’s from when I still went with my mum to synagogue. That was one of the only times she got me in a suit. Must’ve been Rosh Hashanah or something, so she just had to get a picture.” </p>
<p>            He pulled out another one and instantly knew it was a photo of his dad and uncle. They were kids, probably 12 or younger, at some sort of festival. Dad was sporting a toy rifle and a devilish grin in front of a game stand, and both uncle and the poor carnie in the background realized how bad of an idea that was. </p>
<p>            Darius set that one aside, taking note to ask dad or uncle about it later before something caught his eye. In the crate surrounded by loose photos and framed pictures laid a small round portrait shot. A beautiful young woman stared back at him from the tarnished gold frame. She had soft grey eyes, wavy blonde hair, and a delicate smile. </p>
<p>            “Who’s this?” Darius held the photo up to his father. </p>
<p>            Steve studied it for a moment before taking it into his hands. His brow furrowed in at first, and his mouth went rigid. He stared at it for a moment, rubbing at the distressed gold with the pad of his thumb. Then he softened. Dad let out a small breath, the corners of his mouth perking up while he passed over the photo one last time. “That’s my mum,” he said finally. </p>
<p>            “She’s pretty,” Darius said without much thought. </p>
<p>            “Yeah?” Steve asked, tracing the image again with his thumb and eyes. “Yeah, I guess she was,” he smiled. </p>
<p>            “Do you still talk to her?” </p>
<p>            Dad shook his head. “She passed away about a year before you were born,” he said. </p>
<p>            Darius shrank away. “Oh, sorry,” he said, glancing back to the door. </p>
<p>            “Don’t be,” he replied. “I never talk about her, no way you could’ve known. Actually, she’s the reason you're here, you know. I was in town for her funeral, and that’s how me and your mum got together.” Dad pulled a face, rocking his head side to side in thought. “Well… it’s a <em>bit </em>more complicated than that. But she’s kinda responsible for you being born an’ all.” </p>
<p>            Darius snorted. “Should I thank or curse her?” </p>
<p>            Dad snickered at that. “She would’ve adored you,” he said, ruffling up Darius’s hair, but held onto the portrait. </p>
<p>            He didn’t even try to bat away his hand. “Where’d you get all these, anyway?” Darius asked. </p>
<p>            “My old house, your mum’s attic, my dad’s place<em>—</em>hell, even your grandparents sent a few over.” </p>
<p>            That was a feat short of a miracle. Grandpa Dermot and Grandma Angie never talked about or addressed Steve by name, <em>ever. </em>And when his mum broke the news that he’d be a part of their lives again, his grandparents almost went through the damn roof. But maybe they were coming around. Or maybe mum finally chewed them out...</p>
<p>            “Thought you might like hanging some of these up<em>, </em>maybe the ones of you and Oggy, or of your mum. You know, just so your room wouldn’t feel as empty, I guess.” </p>
<p>            Darius nodded before pouring back into the photos and arranging the ones he liked on his bed. He was so engrossed; he almost didn’t notice his dad walking out of the room again. But then, just as he stepped past the threshold, Darius heard it. </p>
<p>            “Love you,” said his dad in parting. The words weren't faint. He said that as if it was a normal thing. </p>
<p>           Watching his father go down the stairs, not even waiting to hear it back, Darius realized it was a normal thing for other families. This could be normal for them<em>—</em>this could be <em>their</em> normal. Rabbit stew on cold Hannukah nights, decorating the tree with his uncle, listening to them bicker over who was drinking too much or not enough, stories about vampire mountain<em>— </em>that could all be normal for Darius. </p>
<p>            And it was then that Darius realized he wouldn't mind that.</p>
<p>            He turned to see his father already half-way down the stairs. “Hey, dad?” </p>
<p>            Steve stopped, looking back with a furrowed brow and a leg already leaning to go back up the stairs. </p>
<p>            “Are…” He didn’t know why, but it suddenly became hard to speak. “Are you going to light the menorah?” Darius asked in a small voice. </p>
<p>            “Yeah,” he said. “It’s sundown, so I’ll do the readings and your uncle will make more of that spiced wine.”</p>
<p>            “Can I…” Darius held his breath, but he wasn't sure why. “Can I help? Or maybe just watch, I guess?” </p>
<p>            Steve’s eyes widened up, almost like he was too surprised to smile. “Yeah, sure,” he waved Darius down. “I’ll teach you the Hebrew, and maybe we can break out your grandma’s sufganiyot recipe.” </p>
<p>            He walked with his father down the steps, listening intently while dad described these soft, jelly-filled doughnuts that sounded like absolute nirvana in a fried, sugar-coated dough.</p>
<p>            Uncle was already in the kitchen, ladling up wine into pre-warmed mugs and tending to the fire. Making his way to the table with a smile, Darius saw that there were three cups already in his hands.</p>
<p>            Darius stood at the menorah, flipping through the family Torah while he listened to his father’s gentle Hebrew. They recited the passages and rites together, Darius repeating his dad’s words while he sipped from that mulled wine. Uncle mouthed along as well, curled up at his husband’s side just to watch his boys with a swelling pride.</p>
<p>            And Dad would just smile and nod over the rim, glancing at the photo of his mum he settled on the table.</p>
<p>            Bubbe Sarah, Darius would later call her, sat beside the menorah, watching them from behind her gold frame. She saw her grandson mimic the words of his father to get acquainted with their mother tongue. She saw her son light another memory into the wicks. She saw her son-in-law curl up into Steve’s side, watching his blended family in awe just as she did. </p>
<p>            Even after the menorah candles burned out far into the night, even the winds and snow retiring for the day, she watched the three of them. They sat on the couch together, Darius engrossed by <em>March of the Penguins,</em> Darren wrapped up in Steve’s arms, and her son gazing at his very own that Hanukkah Night. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey all, this came out a bit later than I wanted due to the winter storm that hit my city late last week. But, I hope it was worth the wait and a nice conclusion to this fluffy family piece between Steve, Darren, and Darius :D</p>
<p>I couldn't think of any cool holiday puns for this chapter, but I really think 'Gold Wax' is fitting! </p>
<p>And, as always, I hope you enjoyed reading~! I'll be posting a postmortem for this next week on my Tumblr, so if you wanna send me asks about the story or my process, I'd be more than happy to answer! Just shoot me asks over @nomiliy on Tumblr~</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading~!<br/>I never get to write Darius, so this was a lot of fun! I really do envision him to be a lot like Steve, only more self-aware of those darker traits than his father. </p>
<p>'Hassenpfeffer on the Roof' is my attempt at wordplay/association XD 'Hassenpfeffer' is German for rabbit stew, and if you're familiar with my other series then you're already familiar with Jewish!Steve headcanon :D Is that a bad reach for 'Fiddler on the Roof'? Yes. Do I care? Well, only a little.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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